


Love Always, Bill.

by 65writings



Category: Bipper - Fandom, Gravity Falls, billdip - Fandom
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5954716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/65writings/pseuds/65writings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Human!Bill and Dipper are currently in a long-distance relationship. Dipper reflects on the love letters sent between him and his troubled sweetheart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Always, Bill.

We hadn't spoken in person in a long time. Not to say that we grew apart. We didn't. By any means. But we missed each other - missed holding hands, missed morning coffees and stealing each other's socks and playing board games on the attic floor until the wee hours of the morning.  
The lonely feeling was mutual.

I'd express it in simple poems. Nothing award-winning or anything. Just four lines that explained the aching in my chest. Every letter I sent him would close with one.

He told me he pinned them all up on his bedroom wall. 

I'd imagine him lying in his bed, lanky body stretched on top of his comforter, arms crossed behind his head, gazing up at my chicken-scratch love letters hanging by silver tacks and making his room feel a little less dull. Making his world seem a little less dreary. Making his heart feel a little less weary.

And I could see him pulling out a piece of blue-lined paper from the box underneath of his bed - the one I'd put there when we used to talk in person and I used to sit with my back against his headboard, him at the end, being my muse - and buzzing through a reply in his immaculate cursive. He was far more eloquent than me. Always will be. Even though I was the one that tried to be poetic.

Everything came naturally to him. More like magically to him.

And once he was done, he'd seal his letter inside his metallic gold envelope with a smear of his tongue across the lip and flick it out the window.

It always found it's way to me.

Sometimes I'd wake up and the letter would be at the foot of my bed, glittering faintly in the soft morning light. Sometimes it would be on my desk, opened and lying flat, words face-up, too eager for me to read the words it carried. And sometimes, the letter would smack me upside the head while I was sleeping, unable to contain the burning, urgent message inside, which was usually 'I LOVE YOU' written in deep red ink.

He always wrote in red ink.

He used it to compare me to the stars - saying that I was infinite like them and dazzling like them, whatever that means exactly. The cherry ink bled a bit into the paper to tell me that I was his life and soul and reason to breathe, reason to carry on, and that he was counting down each day that I would be gone - until the countdown reached zero and he could swoop me into his arms again.

That would make my heart flutter, thrum, dance, in my chest. I missed him holding me. I missed being wrapped up tight in those arms, pressing my face into the dip in his ribs, and breathing all of him in. 

I still miss that.

I'll always miss that.

If I'd known - all that time he'd been writing those letters - what was going on, I'd have stopped it. 

Of course I would have. But sometimes it's hard to believe that. Because I should have known - I should have stopped it.

Why hadn't I known?

Why hadn't I stopped it?

The way the ink spilled so beautifully in graceful loops and swift arcs. The way it seeped ever so slightly into the fibers of his blue-lined papers. The deep, rich blood-red color. 

It makes my vision go black around the edges. 

And, now, instead of seeing him, shock of bleach-blonde hair, brown eyes glittering, tanned skin glowing, all I can see is

His hair falling in matted, unwashed clumps in his eyes. 

His stained t-shirt clinging to his shaking chest, heaving with each strangled breath. 

Tears brimming in his eyes and pouring over his cheeks, splattering on his half-written letter.

'Oops.

Start again.

Can't let Dipper see that.'

And then he'd, with a trembling hold on his steak knife, slit the next finger, and start over. 

Rain pelting against his half-open window, soaking the floor, the bottom quarter of his bed, that book he'd borrowed from the library and 'forgotten' to return.

'Dear Dipper,' he'd write in his overflowing ink.

'There's something I'd like to tell you.'

And maybe he hadn't showered in days - weeks - but he'd smell good. He always smelled good.

Just like he always was more eloquent than me.

And like how he always wrote in red ink.

'I love you. Forever. And always. And you know that.'

The scent of vanilla and cinnamon candles flickering at either corner of his desk would mingle with his smell of sleep and expensive cologne and drown all of his senses. Or at least try to.

It was fortunate - for me - that he could swim. 

'And these long, angsty months without you have made me realize,'

He'd be crying, sobbing, but he'd be sure to brush away his tears because he had no other option.

He couldn't let them fall anymore.

He had no more fingers left to cut; all ten of them were bleeding now. And this was the last chance he had to write this letter.

This was the hardest one he'd ever written. 

'I never want to spend another second without you, ever again.'

He'd close the letter once he'd signed off with his swirling signature that he charmed to sparkle with little white stars inside the deep red. He'd even lick it - like always - because this letter was really no different than any other. 

And with a flick of the wrist, it'd be out his window, and slicing through the outside air, not to worry about the rain. Because everything came magically to him. And a little rain was not what hurt him.

This letter whacked me hard on the head - like it would when I was asleep and it'd wanted me awake to remind me that he loved me - but I was already awake, bent over my desk, slaving over an assignment. And this was weird. 

But then again, things were always weird with him.

The letter beat me twice more before I could snatch it up. Like it was teasing me. Like it was urging me. Like it needed me. 

I'd read the letter over again, lingering on each red word as always. Always.

Always, always, always.

'Dear Dipper,' he'd written in his overflowing red ink. It seemed like it was a new pen - full of life, a new kick. 

I swear if I knew, I'd have stopped it.

It was a shorter letter - shorter than he'd ever written before. And simpler. Nowhere near as poetic. But that didn't mean my heart wasn't picking up the pace just knowing that the tips of his fingers might have held this paper the same way. Or that he was thinking of me when he strung these words together. 

 

'There's something I'd like to tell you. I love you. Forever. And always. And you know that. And these long, angsty months without you have made me realize, I never want to spend another second without you, ever again. But that doesn't mean for you to rush.

 

I'll be waiting for you on the other side.'


End file.
